Shadow of Death

by Patricia Gussin

  Too stunned to react, Laura felt herself being dragged through a rubble-strewn lot. The powerful hand sealed her mouth and the other arm wrapped around her body, restraining both of her arms. Where was the knife? She didn’t know.

  A mugging. “Just take my purse,” she tried to scream, but the man’s grip tightened, choking off her breath. Frantic, she tried to kick, but only stumbled as her assailant pulled her more deeply into the shadows of the burned-out buildings.

  She closed her eyes for a second, hoping against hope that this was a nightmare. She opened them when she hit hard on what looked to be the foundation of an abandoned house. She could see crumbling concrete strewn with broken bottles and patches of dirt. Landing on her side, she scrambled to all fours, but the hand on her mouth did not relent. The ground beneath her was jagged and pieces of broken glass cut into her legs. She tried to crawl, but one muscular arm flipped her over and pinned her down on her back. The other clamped even more tightly against her mouth. She tried to bite the big hand, but the pressure intensified and she couldn’t breathe. “Take my purse,” she screamed silently. “Take my purse and leave me alone!”

  Trying to get some leverage, she groped at the uneven ground with her feet, but her assailant had dropped to his knees and dug an elbow into her chest, spreading her legs with his other hand. He shoved up her skirt and ripped off her pantyhose, shredding them.

  “I’m being raped!” screamed through Laura’s mind the instant she felt a strong hand against her thighs. No, this couldn’t be happening to her! This was not a mugging. He was not interested in her purse. He was going to rape her. For the first time Laura realized he was making sounds. Hisses, grunts and some words. “Fuck.” “Pay.” “Brother.” They made no sense. She knew she should pay attention, but he was digging his fingers into her abdomen, groping for her white cotton panties. She flailed and twisted, but he yanked them down past her knees in one effortless move. Then he lowered himself onto her. His face so close to hers that she could feel each guttural breath. His bulk crushed her chest, making it hard to breathe. For the first time, she looked at his eyes, recoiling at what she saw: brown saucers, smoldering with hate.

  Pinned to the hard ground, helpless against this man’s immense strength, barely able to breathe, she urged herself to think, but how could she as he pushed his body onto hers? He kept spewing obscenities, more focused now. The words “fuck” and “kill” and “cut your throat” interspersed between incomprehensible grunts.

  “Kill”? He was going to kill her? She had to get away! Repeatedly, she tried to scream, but the hand crushed her lips and nose. His other hand worked his pants down and he thrust his stiff penis between her thighs.

  Her struggle seemed useless, but she wouldn’t surrender. She thought of her husband, her children. Was she going to die right here? Her purse strap, wound around her right shoulder, impaired any motion on that side. Pulling her left hand free, she reached up and ripped off her attacker’s baseball cap. She tried to tear at his hair, but the head was shaved smooth. She tried to scratch at his eyes, but her nails were filed too short to make an impact. He managed to pin her arm. Something lumpy was digging into her back and she realized that the bump underneath her must be her purse. Desperate now, she felt like an animal, a trapped animal with the powerful instinct of survival taking hold.

  He groaned as he shoved his penis inside her back and forth. The cadence of crude obscenities assaulted her. “Fuck you, bitch doctors. Slit your fuckin’ throats.” Laura realized with horror that her attacker was acting out of hate, not lust. Hate so deep that he wanted to hurt her as much as he could. What was next? Death? Was he going to kill her with that knife? Her heart beat so fast that she thought it would explode in her chest. She had two small children. She wasn’t ready to die!

  Then the threats stopped, replaced by repulsive grunts. Strangely, the brief lull in the verbal assault allowed Laura time to concentrate despite the thrusting crescendo inside of her. Again she closed her eyes tightly, opening them when he uttered a hideous, incomprehensible howl as if it came from the center of his soul. It was this terrifying, murderous sound that convinced Laura that he was really going to kill her.

  She knew that her only hope was to attract attention, but his hand still silenced her. She couldn’t free her right arm far enough to pry his hand off her mouth, her purse strap was in the way. How much longer did she have to live?

  And then she remembered. Oh God, could she reach it fast enough? He had just exploded inside her. Already, she could feel his erection begin to subside as his body shifted slightly to her left, just enough to allow her to tug the purse from under her. Tensing her body to stop the violent trembling, Laura slipped her right hand into that special compartment of her purse. She found it. Cold and metallic.

  Laura felt his body relax and the bulk of his weight collapsed against her, but he kept his hand clamped over her mouth. Hardly able to breathe, she knew she’d have to make her move before she either passed out or he slit her throat. At the instant that she felt her assailant’s weight begin to ease off to her right side, Laura lifted the small revolver. Gripping it tightly, she withdrew it from her purse, and in a single motion she put it against the side of his smooth head and pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot was deafening.

  There was a jolting motion and a sharp, burning odor. His heavy frame stiffened. Then it fell against her, pinning her left arm. With all her might, she squirmed out from under him and rolled him completely off of her onto the rubble. There was a momentary quiver and then he lay still, slumped in a fetal position, legs curled. All she could do was lay beside him, panting from her efforts, afraid that her heart would explode, too scared to even look at the dark form next to her.

  How long they lay side by side, she didn’t know. But at some point she realized that it was getting dark. She felt a drop of rain. She couldn’t just lay here next to him. Was he actually dead? Had she killed him? Just the thought that she might have killed him, made her heart stop. But he was going to kill her, cut her throat, isn’t that what he said? She could hardly remember. And why hadn’t someone come? Someone must have heard the gunshot?

  Finally, she realized that she had to look at him. What if he was alive? She should go for help. She’d shot him for God’s sake! Slowly rolling to her left, Laura saw it: the jagged hole in her assailant’s head. The coppery taste in her own mouth made her gag as she stared at the congealed blood on the ground under the horrible head wound. Laura dragged herself up onto her knees. In the dusk, under storm clouds, it was difficult to tell how much blood pooled on the dark ground. He was dead, wasn’t he? Vomit filled her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to tear her gaze from the body and to look around. Chest heaving, she gasped for breath, eyes hot with tears, ears still ringing from the gunshot.

  All she could see were shadows of burned-out buildings. Nothing moving. Another drop of rain reminded her that she had to do something. Her eyes moved back to the crumpled form. A plain black T-shirt covered the upper body; black pants were bunched around his thighs. She looked again at his shaved head; the bullet hole was getting harder to make out and the dust behind her contact lenses made her squeeze her eyes shut. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face.

  Had this really happened? The cuts on her legs, and the pulsating pain in her abdomen told her this was reality, not some horrible dream. Using one hand to steady herself, Laura tried to stand up. The ground felt wet and slimy beneath her. Then her stomach turned. Wrenching back her hand, she fell back to her knees. It wasn’t raining that hard. She had planted her hand in bits of blood and brain. The horror struck her so profoundly, that she doubled over on her hands and knees and wretched.

  Having no idea what she was going to do, Laura wiped her hand on her frayed pantyhose. Then she forced herself to her feet. Still wobbly, she stared at the body. She hadn’t touched it, but she knew that it was lifeless, dead. Whimpering, she smoothed her skirt over her naked lower body and waite
d. Gunshots and firebombs were common in this neighborhood, but she was so close to the hospital someone should come soon. She heard the shrill wail of an approaching ambulance, a sense of relief flooding through her. But then it screeched to a halt nearby, probably at the emergency room entrance. She waited, hugging herself as clouds darkened the sky.

  A few more sprinkles. Nobody came. She kept staring at the boy’s body. Bizarre, terrifying words coursed through her: rape; murder. This could not have happened. She’d have to report it to the police. Endure the humiliation of a rape examination. Or, she glanced at the dead body, would they arrest her? Would she go to jail? For murder? The gun was unregistered, illegal. No, her mind screamed. I can’t go to jail. My children, they’re my life! With a shudder she realized that she still held the gun. It felt heinous in her hand and she started to put it down in the dirt, but hesitated. She couldn’t just leave it, so she picked up her purse, deposited the weapon inside, and zipped it shut.

  Laura gulped the humid air and tried to clear her head. A few more deep breaths and no more whimpering. She wondered if this could look like just one more random killing. She wished that it was, wished that she had just stumbled upon it. If she just got out of here right now, would all of this just go away? Maybe Steve would never have to find out. He was already conflicted about her being in med school in the first place.

  She’d met Steve her first day on campus at the University of Michigan. She a naïve freshmen, he a second year journalism major. They were married one year later. He’d switched majors and now had a Master’s Degree in Social Work and a job in inner city Detroit, where they’d moved so she could enroll in the medical school there. Now they had two kids. If Steve found out she’d been raped, she didn’t know what he’d do or think. He was idealistic, self-righteous. Would he think that she was tainted? Would he blame her? “Must not find out; must not find out,” kept repeating itself in her mind as she stooped to pick up her panties and ruined pantyhose. She stuffed them in her purse. Then she inched away until she felt the concrete of the sidewalk. She felt a few more drops. A storm was coming. There was no one in sight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Snake pulled the car over to the curb as Lucy Jones walked out through the heavy gray door of the hospital. He leaned over to the passenger window and called to her. “Mrs. Jones? I’m lookin’ to pick up Johnny. He in there?”

  “No, Ray,” she said, taking out a tissue and dabbing her eyes. “My boy left a while ago. He’s supposed to be home with the girls while I go to work.”

  “Hope Anthony’s doin’ better, Mrs. Jones,” Snake called after her. He hated when the old folks called him “Ray.”

  “Where the fuck is Johnny?” he asked aloud as soon as Lucy walked away. They had plans tonight, the brothers from the Alexandrine neighborhood. Not real brothers, but closer. Five of them, four now with Anthony down. Lonnie Greenwood, three or four years older than the others, back from Nam with a bullet in the leg, still limping, growing an Afro. Willie Allen, a pudgy seventeen-year-old, who followed the others like a puppy dog. And he and Johnny, the ones gonna bust out of this shit hole. Gonna become famous. Johnny with his music. Him with his painting. Just like Diego Rivera who painted on the wall of the big art museum on Woodward. Snake figured he would be a famous painter too. Make a ton of money doing it. Just like Rivera.

  Snake drove Lonnie’s beat-up old Mustang in circles around the hospital to avoid the cops that hung around the doors. He’d borrowed the car, originally maroon but now mostly rusted, to take his mother, Leona, to rehab. Her back had gone out on her again, and social services was threatening to take away her benefits if she missed another physical therapy session. How the hell did they think she was gonna get there anyway? Hardly able to walk, no money for a bus, and no car. After dropping her off, Snake headed over to the hospital to pick up Johnny like they planned. Then they’d swing back to the neighborhood and get Lonnie and Willie for the night. He had to give it to Johnny, so good about checkin’ in on Anthony every day. Somethin’ must be wrong tonight since he was so late comin’ out. It’d kill Johnny if that boy died — they’d been so tight. Johnny, nineteen, the same age as Snake, one year older than Anthony. So different, but real brothers lookin’ out for each other. As smart as Anthony was, Johnny had always been the big brother — even though they’d had different fathers — fathers they had never seen.

  Now Anthony was lying in that hospital and Snake knew that Johnny blamed himself and it was breakin’ him up. No way Anthony woulda come out that night if Johnny hadn’t dragged him out into the looting and sniping.

  “Fuckin’ city’s on fire!” Johnny’d yelled that second night of the riot as he dumped his bag onto Anthony’s bed, two toaster ovens, a transistor radio, a pile of screwdrivers, and a half-dozen flashlights. “All the loot you can carry. Crash in, take the shit, torch, and run. Like nothin’ you’ve ever seen! It’s our turn, man! Come on, let’s get goin’!”

  “People getting shot out there,” Anthony told him.

  “I tell you, the cops ain’t doin’ nothin’, just standin’ back,” Johnny argued. “Only shootin’ goin’ on is us snipin’ at the pigs. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Cops’ll shoot back. You guys are fools if you think they won’t.”

  “Hey, there’s plenty stores burstin’ with school clothes, Mr. College.” Johnny knew his brother was desperate to look sharp when he stepped onto campus. Knew he didn’t want to step out into the alien, preppy world lookin’ like a welfare case. “I can show you where to get ’em. Man, I can get ’em for you.”

  Anthony shook his head. “You’re into too much shit already,” he’d said. “Now cool it, the girls are asleep.”

  Snake saw Johnny grab Anthony by the shoulder, using his strength to persuade him. Anthony, slim, his skin much darker, his hair neatly trimmed like a black poster model. Johnny, stocky, muscular, his head shaved, just like Snake’s to make them look mean, rebellious.

  “This a day like no other day in the history of the world, man. Don’t you get that yet? It’s time to shop for free. Let’s go, the brothers are waitin’ on us.” Like Johnny knew he would, Anthony gave in and followed them out into the night. Snake could still feel the weight of the sawed-off shotgun he’d lifted earlier that night and carried wrapped in a rag.

  What happened next Snake could see like it was on the big screen. Five of them — him, Johnny, Lonnie, Willie, and Anthony, heading up Alexandrine toward the fiery skies. Swaggering, ignoring the cop cars and fire equipment scattered along the route. Darting in and out of the shadows, cops everywhere, the occasional fire of a sniper’s bullet, all blended into an excitement beyond Snake’s belief.

  The gang turned onto West Grand Boulevard where the streets were jammed with all kinds of people, white and black, men and women, old and young. They were carrying televisions and lamps and boxes and bags full of who knew what. As the group made their way along, entire streets were on fire. Smoke clogged the air and made them cough and wheeze. Cops and guards in uniforms, packing all kind of weapons, from M-2 rifles to short barrel shotguns, swarmed the streets, but they were standing down and just letting the folks loot and burn.

  “Remember, just like we seen them other guys do it,” Johnny’d yelled, taking charge. Earlier that evening they’d caught the routine used by other gangs. “Smash in the glass. Take what we can. Leave by the back. Willie, you wait in the alley till I say so, then go in and torch the place.”

  That’s when Snake saw Anthony tug on Johnny’s shirt, pointing to a building a half a block ahead and on the other side of the street. A burst of gunfire exploded. “Let’s get out of here,” Anthony shouted.

  “Not till we get what we come for,” Johnny jerked out of Anthony’s grasp. “We go left here, use the alley. Place is on the corner, they got every kinda clothing you can imagine. We hit it, stash the loot, circle back and hit the appliance place couple a blocks down and get ourselves some real entertainment. I told you, the pigs ain’t sho
otin’. See them guys carryin’ out the TVs over there. Hell, look how many are whities!”

  Snake remembered the old black man with Coke-bottle glasses sitting in a folding chair in front of a men’s clothing store on the next corner, a rifle resting in his lap, a piece of cardboard with soul brother scrawled in Magic Marker by his side. Even with all the noise and shit going down, he’d dozed off, slumped forward.

  “Snake, get the drop on the old man before he goes for that rifle,” Johnny’d ordered.

  “Man’s a brother. We can’t loot no brother.”

  Lonnie moved ahead. “Yeah, well, our brother, Anthony here, he needs shit. In Nam, make no difference what color, you do what you have to do.”

  “Don’t,” Anthony coughed from the smoke. “He’s got a gun. I don’t need the threads, man. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  Lonnie was right. Do what you had to do. As the old man dozed, Snake grabbed his rifle.

  “You gonna have to shoot me, boy.” The old man had surprised Snake by instantly yanking the rifle out of his hand. “This shop’s all I got.”

  Snake had no choice. He swung the butt of his shotgun up and slammed it into the man’s head. As he slumped onto the cement sidewalk, Snake grabbed the poor fool’s rifle. Shotgun in one hand and rifle in another, Snake crashed through the gaping hole that Willie had smashed in the store window with a baseball bat.

  Behind him, Johnny pushed Anthony inside. Lonnie was already there, pulling clothes off the racks. “Get suits, man,” Johnny’d shouted.

  “Got another piece!” Snake shoved the old man’s Remington into Anthony’s hands as he jumped into the racks, grabbing at clothes.

  Snake, Lonnie, and Johnny were heading toward the back door just as they heard the booming command, “Police! Drop it!”

  They ran like hell out the back of the store into the alley before they realized that Anthony was not behind them. That’s when they heard the gunshot. Johnny bolted back toward the shop, and Snake had to hold him back with both arms. It took all his strength to keep Johnny back in the darkness as they waited and watched police surround the building. Almost twenty minutes later a green van with a white cross arrived. Five minutes later two stretchers were carried out of the building — the old man with the soul brother sign and Anthony.